


love you to the moon (and to saturn)

by eraseallpicturesofron



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Family Fluff, Gen, One Big Happy Family, POV Child, POV Rafael Lightwood-Bane, Post-Canon, also relatively niche, pretty self indulgent tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eraseallpicturesofron/pseuds/eraseallpicturesofron
Summary: Rafael is almost six years old, and he already knows a lot.He knows two whole languages, he knows almost all the runes, he even knows the certain way he’s got to wave his hands to make his stuffed animals float (even though he doesn’t have any magic, and Max is the only one who can actually do that).He doesn’t, though, know what a toast is.(or: a night in the life of the Lightwood-Banes, in which Rafael knows that he's always going to have his family. And also, a toast.)
Relationships: Alec Lightwood & Rafael Lightwood-Bane, Magnus Bane & Rafael Lightwood-Bane, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Max Lightwood-Bane & Rafael Lightwood-Bane
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	love you to the moon (and to saturn)

**Author's Note:**

> personality traits include naming all my fics after taylor swift lyrics (this time it's from "seven") and writing self-indulgent fics about barely established characters (aka rafael) because Yes. <3

Rafael is almost six years old, and he already knows a lot.

He knows two whole languages (even though Papa knows so many more), he knows almost all the runes (even though Dad knows each and every one), he even knows the certain way he’s got to wave his hands to make his stuffed animals float (even though he doesn’t have any magic, and Max is the only one who can actually do that).

He doesn’t, though, know what a toast is.

They’re in the kitchen that night, just the four of them, up far past bedtime when Papa takes out a big green bottle, wrapped in golden foil, and the container of apple juice from the fridge. He clears his throat, holds for a dramatic pause (Dad calls Papa “dramatic” a lot, though Papa never seems to mind), and declares, “We’ll make a toast.”

Rafael knows what _toast_ is, but it doesn’t seem like they’re having breakfast for dinner— Dad would be making French toast and cutting up fruit, but instead he’s sitting on the island with Max on his lap, his chin rested between the budding horns that stick out from Max’s mess of curly hair. 

(He also knows that Max is his real brother, despite any definition of “real”, because Papa jokes that the curly hair must be a brother thing, and Rafael will agree any day.)

“Sippy cup of apple juice for you,” Papa announces as he pours, Max reaching his grabby hands towards it before the lid is even on.

“Big kid cup of apple juice for you.”

That one’s for him, Rafael knows that too, and he also knows that he likes being called a big kid. It reminds him that he’s growing up, that he’s smart and he’s strong and that everyone knows it too.

(Dad and Papa sometimes say that he’s growing up too fast, with smiles that he thinksare supposed to be frowns, as they tuck him into bed.)

“And, big kid apple juice for you,” Papa finishes, pouring the bubbling contents of the green bottle into a thin glass and sending an exaggerated wink in Dad’s direction. 

Dad rolls his eyes, but he still sends a smile back; if Rafael really thinks about it, Papa might be the only person that Dad smiles at after he rolls his eyes, and that in itself is pretty sweet. 

Papa slides the drinks across the island, his delicate touch keeping anything from spilling. In the second that Max grabs his, the straw tip is already in his mouth before Dad holds up his hands to stop him.  
“Hey, you gotta wait, baby.”

Max ponders, takes the straw out of his mouth, and asks, “Why?”

“We all drink them together, at the same time.”

“Why?”

“So that we can hit them together,” Dad raises his own glass and taps it against Max’s sippy cup. 

Even with the demonstration, Max’s need for an answer has yet to be met. He screws up his face, eyebrows drawn and nose scrunched the way that he does right before he’s about to throw a fit, and asks again with greater force, “Why?” 

Rafael loves his brother very much, he might be his favorite person in the world, actually, but Max likes to talk more than anything, and Rafael prefers the quiet. He knows how this will go, with Dad telling him why and the questions continuing until he’s worn down or throwing a needless fit. 

Dad has the patience for this, Rafael knows that he’s been dealing with Max’s fits since he was a tiny baby, but he can’t claim to have the same patience, and butts in, “Because.”

Max’s screwed up feautes relax themselves and he settles back against Dad’s chest, accepting the response with a nonchalant “okay”.

Across the island, Dad and Papa share a look that Rafael thinks might be a part of their own secret language.

They share that look a lot: it’s the same look that they give each other when Rafael comes into their bed to sleep, or when he takes it upon himself to help them set the table for dinner, or when he whispers a sleepy “te quiero” when he bids them goodnight. 

(It’s the same look that they shared the first time that he forgoed calling them “Alec and Magnus”, one night when he had an awful nightmare, one that he still remembers now, and he crashed their private balcony date with tears in his eyes and his blanket in his hand.)

Papa looks away, though he still wears a smile on his face as he scans the room, catching glimpses of all three of them (“my three favorite people,” he calls them) and raises his glass. 

With another clearing of his throat, he decides on, “To us.” 

Dad raises his glass too, clinking it against Papa’s as he repeats, “To us.”

Rafael follows suit, as does Max, though his confusion speaks for itself as he’s finally able to sip his juice. Dad and Papa drink too, the bubbly liquid in their glasses that looks a lot like apple juice, now that Rafael is really looking at it.

He doesn’t drink, though.

Instead, he holds his cup back up, and says, although his voice is soft, “To us.”

Dad and Papa share that look, again, before Papa crosses the island and ruffles Rafael’s hair, dropping a kiss into his mess of curls.

Rafael is almost six years old, and maybe he doesn’t know a lot, but today he learned what a toast is, and he knows that “us” is the feeling that he gets in his chest when he’s with the people he knows were meant to be his family.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :))  
> leave a comment to lmk what you thought!! <3


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